Fool's Gold

by Melody Carlson

  “Call us if you need anything, sweetie,” she finally says. I promise to do that, and then we hang up.

  Sometimes it amazes me that I’ve spent so little time actually living with my parents. At least in these last five years. Before that, I lived in the village with them and with my brothers too before they went off to the group home and mission school and eventually to uni in the States. But back when I was younger, I always had village friends to play with, and my mom taught everyone who wanted to learn at our little village school. Most of the time I went barefoot, and I often wore the same dress for several days in a row before my mom insisted on stripping it off me and throwing it into the laundry. The way my mom did her washing was with this ancient wringer washer that was powered by petrol. When I was old enough, she even let me help but always warned me to keep my long hair pulled back so that it wouldn’t get caught up in the wringers. These memories now seem like some scene from an old movie — or maybe just a dream. They’re so vastly different and removed from the way I’m living these days. Sometimes I wonder which is real.

  I finally checked my e-mail during break time at work. Cynthia said it’s okay as long as it’s not on company time. As I suspected, I had several messages from Sophie. The first few filled me in on the latest happenings at school. It’s strange to think it’s still the school year for them over there. How quickly I slipped into the whole “summer vacation” thing here. I’m glad I did the extra work earlier this year, allowing me to have this time off now. Hopefully I won’t be too far behind when I return.

  “You’re so lucky to be out of school these days,” her first e-mail says. “Mr. Fenwick is so brokenhearted by Miss O’Brien’s rejection of his affections that he’s taking it all out on us.” And on she goes lamenting the usual troubles of the group home and secondary school and the disagreements between mates and mission life in general. But toward the end, she cheers up and reminds me that she’s praying for me and that God loves me and then says, “I hope you’ve located a new Bible by now and that you’re reading it again.” Her next e-mails become briefer and I can tell that she’s feeling sour that I haven’t written back.

  “I’m sure you’re quite busy over there,” she says. “Too busy to stay in touch with your old mate?”

  Her guilt trip works, and I find myself writing back to her. I try to keep it brief and to the point. I tell her about my job and how fancy Vanessa’s home is and how fast-paced life is here. But I don’t say anything very personal. I’m not even sure why, but I suspect it has to do with the whole God thing. It’s as if Sophie is this constant reminder to me that I’m not doing what I should be doing in the spiritual sense. As in not reading my Bible, praying, or going to church. I consider the fact that the mission school has “devotions” every day and how we get demerits for missing or even being late. And then there’s the weekly Bible study and church on Wednesdays and Sundays. It’s as if they live and breathe all this stuff on a continual basis. And it’s unthinkable to take a break of any kind. It’s funny how this seems like a completely foreign culture to me now. Almost as if all my old friends are living in a cult or something. And sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever want to go back. And I guess that scares me a little.

  “So as you can see, my life is really busy, and sometimes it’s hard to take the time to check e-mail. So please don’t feel bad if I don’t get back to you right away. Remember what they say: No news is good news. So if you don’t hear from me, you can just assume that everything’s going great. . . .” I feel like such a phony as I hit the Send button. Not only that, but I feel like I’m starting to be a pretty bad excuse for a mate. But, I assure myself, I can work these things out later.

  “Coming shopping with us today?” asks Laticia as she hurries past my desk with several packages of copy paper in her hands.

  “Again?” I ask.

  “It’s Super Friday,” she calls over her shoulder. “Customers with accounts get an additional 10 percent off almost everything.”

  “Ten percent?”

  “You in?”

  As it turns out, I am in. And once again the three of us leap into a taxi. I pay four dollars to cover my fair share, and within three minutes we’re at the mall again. And this time I don’t need any encouragement to skip food and go directly to Macy’s. In fact, I don’t even feel hungry as I make my way to the beachwear department. We’ve already agreed to meet around 11:50 to grab hot dogs and a cab. But all I can think is that now I can get something new and cool to wear to the beach party tomorrow. Vanessa told me, after I discreetly asked, that Wyatt Conners would probably be there.

  “But I think he and Felicia are hooking up,” she told me when we went out for Frappuccinos last night. “Elisa said they went sailing last weekend and that Felicia has her sights firmly set on him.” Vanessa attempted a laugh. “And we all know that whatever Felicia wants, Felicia gets.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, stupidly, of course.

  Vanessa just looked at me with those wide, blue eyes, still thinking, I’m sure, that I’m the biggest lamebrain in Orange County. “Felicia’s dad is loaded.”

  “So is yours,” I reminded her. “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “In the first place, my dad is not loaded. Not like Felicia’s dad anyway. Felicia’s dad inherited money and businesses, and he’s worth like millions, maybe billions, I don’t know for sure. But I’ve heard he owns businesses all over the world. And they have like six or seven homes. Felicia can basically have anything she wants.”

  “Meaning Wyatt?”

  “This is the deal with Wyatt, Hannah: His parents were always pretty well off, okay? But they split up a couple years ago. And Wyatt lives with his mom, who’s still trying to get an alimony settlement from his dad since he’s the one with the actual money. Unfortunately, it’s not going too well, and Wyatt’s not able to . . . enjoy all the things he’s accustomed to. So I’m sure that having Felicia as a girlfriend must be pretty tempting to him.”

  “And she’s not hard to look at,” I added, as if that made me feel any better.

  “You got it.”

  “Well, it’s not like I was in love with him,” I told her. “I just thought he was nice, and he mentioned surfing and — ”

  “Yeah, Wyatt totally loves to surf. He’s like the surfer dude of the bunch of us. He’s really good too. And I’m sure that doesn’t hurt Felicia’s chances with him a bit either.”

  “She surfs too?”

  Vanessa actually laughed then. “Not hardly. But the VanHorns own a beach house in Laguna — that’s where the party is tomorrow — and it’s in a pretty good surfing spot. And since it’s a private beach . . . well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it all out.”

  “Wyatt’s after Felicia for her beach?”

  “Yeah, right. That and everything else. You can’t really blame him, can you? I mean, it’s a pretty nice package.”

  I nodded as if I understood this completely. And maybe I do a little now that I’m getting acclimated to this whole Orange County way of life. And maybe I’d be just as tempted by a package like that too. Who knows? Even so, I’ve always been an extremely competitive person. Whether in sports or grades or getting the biggest laughs from my mates in school, I’ve always enjoyed a fair match. And so, as I make a beeline for the swimwear section, I feel that I’m on a mission. But within moments I am completely overwhelmed. I try to remember the bikinis that Elisa and Vanessa wear and wish I’d thought to ask about the designers, although I’m not sure those kinds of designers can be found at Macy’s. To be honest, I don’t think their suits look all that different from the one I got at Ross. I still have so much to learn.

  “Can I help you?” asks a girl who seems to be about my age.

  “Yeah, I hope so.” Then I quickly explain that I want something that looks good but won’t go flying off me if I’m surfing — or rather falling on my face as I attempt to surf.

  “Tommy,” she says.

  “Huh?�
�

  “Hilfiger.”

  “Oh, right.” And then I follow her over to a section where the primary colors are red, white, and blue. “Very patriotic,” I comment, and she smiles as she grabs several bathers. One is a one-piece with stripes. Another is a two-piece, but not a bikini. Finally we determine what size I am, and she loads me down with a small pile of suits. I quickly try them on, one after the other, and I try not to be too critical of my figure, which is probably not as nice as Felicia’s.

  The salesgirl is actually quite helpful. She brings other sizes and helps me decide which ones look best. And by the time I’m finished, I have purchased a blue and white “tankini,” as she calls it, which will be perfect for surfing, as well as a regular bikini that actually looks hot on me, if I do say so myself. Not only that, but she’s also helped me find a beach bag, thongs, a “cover-up,” and a few other Tommy things that she reckons will be “essential” for tomorrow’s beach party.

  “Do you think this is too much Tommy?” I ask as she tallies up my purchases.

  She smiles. “Not for you. I think you’re a real Tommy girl.”

  “A Tommy girl?” I’m not sure I like the sound of this. Not only that, I’m not sure what Vanessa will think since I know she’s not really into Tommy.

  “Yeah. You seem the sporty type to me. And I think you should go with the style that most fits you and your lifestyle.”

  I nod, thinking this makes sense. But I’m still not convinced.

  “Minus your 10 percent discount for using your credit card, it comes to $538.72,” she tells me, and it’s all I can do not to fall over.

  I repeat the figure, and she just smiles and points to the Etch A Sketch thing that I’m supposed to sign.

  “You saved more than $53,” she says. “That’s almost like getting the bikini for free.”

  Once again, I feel slightly giddy and light-headed, but I obediently sign my name and then thank her as she hands me two bags of Tommy things. I try not to think about what the new balance on my charge account might be as I hurry to the exit. And I remind myself that I’m making good money, even if I am spending it before it gets here.

  “You’re late,” yells Carlita as she wildly waves to me from the curb.

  “Sorry,” I say, running toward them, my bags slapping into my legs as I go.

  “It’s okay,” she says, letting me climb into the cab before her. “It’s only a couple of minutes. We’ll be fine.”

  “I got your hot dog,” says Laticia, handing it to me once we’re all settled. “Just mustard and no tomato sauce.’”

  “Thanks.” I laugh as I take it. Then, between bites, I tell them about my purchases.

  “Were they on sale?” asks Laticia as we climb out of the cab.

  “Just the extra 10 percent,” I say as I pay her for the cab fare and hot dog.

  “Wow,” says Carlita. “That must’ve cost a bundle.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” I tell them. Then, as we head inside, I explain about the beach party and how hard it is for me to try to fit in with all these rich kids.

  “But you’re such a great kid,” says Laticia. “They should like you for who you are, not how much you’re spending on clothes.”

  I study these two as we ride the lift up. And while they’re fashionable in their own way, I realize that they have absolutely no idea what it’s like to compete in Vanessa’s crowd.

  Once again, I stow my bags, thank my office friends, punch my time card, and hurry back to my desk. The feeling of excitement — the thrill of shopping and finding such great things — stays with me almost until the end of my shift. But by then I’m just plain tired.

  “Have a good weekend,” Cynthia says after I punch out.

  “Thanks,” I tell her as I open my locker to retrieve my Macy’s bags. “You too.”

  “Looks like you’ve done some serious shopping,” she observes as I loop the handles over my arm and then pull out my purse.

  I nod. “Yeah, I got some things for a beach party.”

  “On your Macy’s card?”

  “Yeah. Today was 10 percent off.”

  “Be careful, Hannah,” she says in a serious voice.

  I stop to study her for a moment, wondering what she means exactly. I think I even feel offended by this, though Cynthia’s nice to me and all. What business is it of hers what I buy?

  “Don’t get yourself into too much debt,” she continues. “It can be awfully hard to crawl out from under that.”

  “Well, I don’t really plan on buying anything else,” I assure her. “I think I’m pretty much set now.”

  “Good. You know, I’ve learned through the school of hard knocks that it really doesn’t take a whole lot of clothes or even a lot of money to acquire a decent wardrobe — if you go about it right.”

  I notice her navy blazer, which might even have a designer label inside — maybe Ralph Lauren since I happen to know (from Vanessa) that Lauren leans more toward the older, more classic styles. Cynthia is wearing this over a crisp, white shirt with neatly pressed khaki-colored pants, and I take a moment to observe how her brown leather shoes match her belt and purse. As usual, she looks quite well dressed and actually rather classy. “You always look so nice, Cynthia.”

  She smiles now. “There are some simple tricks to it. Let me know if you ever want me to share them with you.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  But as I ride the lift down to the parking area, I’m not so sure that I want to dress like Cynthia. Oh, sure, she looks great, but then she’s a lot older than me, and I rather enjoy the fun kinds of clothes that Vanessa and her mates wear. Even if I can’t actually afford all the fancy designer names, I guess it’s true that I don’t mind trying to look the part. I pile my bags into the back of the Jeep, feeling rather excited about trying out my new Tommy bathers tomorrow. I’m imagining myself wearing the tankini and riding my rented board with both grace and style. Hey, it could happen.

  As I drive toward home, I try not to consider Cynthia’s warning about not getting in over my head in debt. I understand and even appreciate her concern, but really, I don’t think that’s going to happen to me. And like I told her, I reckon I’m all set for summer now. I really don’t think there will be any more big shopping sprees in my future.

  From here on out, I will try to save almost everything I earn. Maybe I’ll even open a special account for it. I just wish that payday wasn’t still a whole week away since I’m really getting low on cash. Not only that, but I realize that I still need enough money to rent a board tomorrow, and I have no idea how much that might cost.

  I pull into the driveway and wonder if I should ask Uncle Ron for a draw on my salary. I overheard one of the janitors saying that he was getting a draw today so that he could take his wife out for their anniversary. And while I’m not looking for any special favors, I would think that being the niece of the owner should be worth something.

  eleven

  “LOOKS LIKE SOMEONE’S GONE SHOPPING AGAIN,” SAYS VANESSA WHEN I’m barely through the door.

  “Hi to you too,” I retort, wishing I had left these bags in the car until later, like midnight.

  “What did you go and do now?” she says in a slightly superior and teasing tone. “Another raincoat perhaps?”

  I set the bags on the shiny countertop, just like I’ve seen her do before. “Not a raincoat,” I tell her in a stiff voice. “Some beach things. I thought I might need a proper set of bathers if I’m gonna try to surf tomorrow. I don’t really want the top of my bikini to come off if I take some horrific plunge.”

  “You’re really going to surf?” she asks as she helps herself to a peek inside a bag.

  “Why not?”

  “Wow, it looks like you mugged Tommy Hilfiger.”

  “Right.” Now, I thought I was prepared for this, but something about her tone is rather aggravating. “I decided that I should go with a style that suits me,” I say, echoing the salesg
irl’s pitch.

  She nods. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” She holds up the top of the tankini. “This might actually look good on you. You’ve got that great long waist that can pull off a suit like this.”

  So then I’m tugging out all the other items, holding them up one by one and explaining why I got them and why I think they’re totally cool. By the time I stop to take a breath, she looks a bit overwhelmed by my unbridled enthusiasm.

  “Uh, that’s a lot of Tommy stuff, Hannah.”

  I frown. “Do you think it’s too much?”

  But she just shrugs. “Not if you’re okay with it. And it’s not like you have a lot of other options anyway. To be honest, your other bikini is, hmm, how do I put this nicely? Well, it’s like so yesterday.”

  “So yesterday?”

  “Yeah. That’s obviously why they had it at Ross. Everything there is like so yesterday. But, I’ll give you this, that bikini is way better than that other excuse of a swimsuit you brought with you. Man, I hope you’ve burned that one by now.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I lie. “I threw it away last week.”

  “That’s a relief.” She holds up the Tommy bikini now. Despite the minimal amount of fabric, it’s got these rather large blocks of red and blue on it with a bit of white trim. Kind of clever, I thought. Plus it looked pretty cool on. Even the salesgirl was impressed.

  “This is pretty cute,” she admits. “I wouldn’t wear it myself, but I can imagine it on you.”

  “So do I pass then?”

  She considers this. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  I sigh in relief. “Well, I’m happy.”

  “Now do you want to see what I got today?”

  “Sure,” I tell her and we go up to her room where she shows me her new bikini, a pastel number which cost far more than mine. Then she slips on some very pretty sandals that I actually feel slightly lustful for. And then a pale pink cover-up that doesn’t appear to cover much. But she seems thrilled with her selections. And so I compliment her on her choices and say that if I had her kind of money, I’d probably get something cooler than Tommy too.